Decay Inevitable

“Yeah, sure,” he said and lunged. Sean stepped inside his outstretched arms and almost delicately carved a broad slice out of his leg. Mac dropped, clutching his thigh. Blood squirted from between his fingers. He looked up at Sean with an expression almost of hope. He seemed too shocked to make any noise at all.

By the time Sean had returned to the main road, the girl was making her way to the opposite path. He followed, stabbing a bloody finger over the keypad of his mobile, relaying his alert to the police switchboard; a nasal voice asked for his name, address and the location of crime. He lied about everything bar the site.

“No, it’s this way,” Sean called out, as the girl made to cut down an alleyway to more estate blocks. The area was crawling with them: drab grey monoliths, punch-drunk and lifeless, their tiny windows either smashed in or boarded over. She stopped and looked back at him, her hip knocked out to one side as she flipped him the Vs.

“What’s this way?” she asked. She was smiling at him. Kind of.

“My place. I’ve got some food. A hot bath. You can stay with me.”

“Oh can I? I’ve just pocketed me the best part of two hundred quid, Tarzan. I could stay in God’s penthouse if I wanted.”

“God doesn’t do rescues.”

“Oh really?” she sang. “What are you, my guardian angel?”

“Stay with me. It’s not safe around here. You might get attacked again.”

Somebody swore in the hive of dwellings behind them. Glass shattered.

“Place has changed since I was a kid,” he said. “Used to be you could leave your front door open and get back to find the place completely fucked over. Now though, they fuck your place over and sit around waiting for you to get back so that they can fuck you over too.”

“Fool with me, Tarzan,” she snarled, falling into step with him, “and I’ll use that knife of yours on your balls.”

CHAPTER SIX: ARRIVAL

ONE MOMENT SHE had been heating a tin of Heinz vegetable soup on the cooker, the next she was a whining heap on the floor.

Will had been thinking of when they first met. How her hair had glowed in the sunshine as she stepped from the library into his path. Following her, and berating himself for his foolishness as he did so, he’d tried to picture her face – of which he’d only caught a glimpse as she brushed by him. The black jacket she wore only served as a backdrop for the red that tumbled down it. When she reached her lift and caught him standing awkwardly, library book clasped to his chest, he asked if he might buy her a drink, fully expecting her to tell him to piss off. She did tell him to piss off. But she had kissed him too. Things had gone well. She had become his new direction. He’d suspected that a wasted life spent shoplifting and fighting and making cameos in any or all of the local courts might be over. Things had gone so well that here he was now, two years later, looking down at his heavily pregnant, heavily sweating wife as a pool of soup spread beneath her.

“Ambulance, Will,” she gasped as he tried to pick her up but she was fish slippery, her body so completely sheened she might have just stepped out of the shower. Her thick red hair had become dark and limp at the ends where it was plastered to her forehead and shoulders.

“Now?” he asked, incredulous. “But the doctor said–”

“Fuck the fucking doctor, Will. Fucking now.”

He lunged for the door, so shocked by her outburst he began to laugh. He tried not to look at her fingers as he spoke to the bland, professional voices – they’d become claws trying to gain purchase on the kitchen floor. Her face had gone horribly white with pain; her hair seemed to be leaking blood into her skin.

The first scream had him down on his knees beside her, pathetically trying to get her to breathe properly. He kept thinking of clean towels and hot water, not having a clue what to do with them. He thought the pounding was their baby trying to barge its way out but then he realised someone was at the door. He went to unlock it, grateful the ambulance crew had taken so little time but wondering why they’d come to the rear of the flat. It was Mrs Garraway, from next door.

“Out of the way, Will,” she squawked, pecking her tiny head in front of his. “You’ve phoned for an ambulance, no doubt. I should wait by the front door.”

Yes, he thought, as she began tending to his wife, loosening her blouse and the drawstring of her leggings, you fucking well should. Catriona was all clenched teeth and eyes – he hoped it wasn’t all due to the trauma of birth; that she was as peeved with Mrs Garraway’s appearance as he.

“How did you–” he began.

“I’m not thick, son,” she admonished, throwing him a withering look with those pale eyes of hers. “I know a birthing cry when I hear one. Now off with you. Call me when the cavalry arrive.”